by Amrit Chima
At last the headmaster crossed the field, wearing a new pullover for the occasion, appearing stately and academic. He cleared his throat and, without the formality of first giving a speech, promptly began to call out names in a booming voice too loud for the small assembly of twenty-two students and a few of their family members. The graduates stood alert, listening, walking toward him with an awkward, unripe dignity when called upon to accept their diplomas. Unaware of the greater world into which they would now be thrust, they grinned foolishly as the headmaster bestowed upon them thin foldable leaflets indicating the year of their achievement.
One by one, the line of waiting graduates shortened, until at last, finishing off the list, the headmaster called, “Darshan Singh Toor.”
Manmohan watched as his son approached to receive his diploma. Darshan wore, as did all the graduates, a newly washed uniform: khaki trousers, polished black loafers, a blue sweater-vest over a white short-sleeve shirt. But in other ways he was distinctly different from his classmates. Whereas they were playful and self-conscious, Darshan was serious and reserved. The only Sikh in the class, his beard was getting longer, curling around his jaw line. He walked with an easy grace, his posture, as always, straight. His eyes were direct, respectful but not challenging as he gravely turned to wave the certificate at his family.
The headmaster smiled. “Congratulations to you all,” he bellowed, concluding the commencement. The group began to disperse, and Darshan joined his family.
Navpreet snatched the document from her brother. “Whatever happened to Oxford?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose if you insist on going to America, we will never see each other again,” she said, “since I am going to Oxford.”
Jai carefully took the diploma from Navpreet, regarding it with pride.
Livleen was quiet, sitting cross-legged in the grass, staring out into the field where the graduates had excitedly clumped together. Manmohan followed her gaze, then looked back at her. She absently pulled a small, isolated daisy from the ground and tossed it aside, then began plucking out single blades of grass.
A movement beyond the crowd of graduates caught Manmohan’s attention, a long arm waving over the students’ heads. “Darshan!” Mohan called.
“What is he doing here?” Jai asked in a hushed whisper.
Darshan’s eyes flicked toward his brother, then away as if pretending he had not noticed.
“Come, we are leaving,” Manmohan said, already moving across the field toward the Falcon parked on the street.
“When Darshan leaves, can I use the car?” Navpreet asked, kicking an invisible ball to the rusted metal goal posts.
“No,” Manmohan said.
“But why not?”
Jai held her daughter back a step. “For what purpose?” she asked.
Navpreet sulked. “I have perfect marks in school, which is better than him. Bapu always says how important school is.”
“You do not need a car to get there,” Manmohan said as they approached the Falcon. He gestured for her to get in the backseat.
A priest from Suva’s gurdwara was waiting for them outside the main house by the time they arrived home. He had come early to set up the holy book in the living room for the kirtan Manmohan had arranged for Darshan’s accomplishment. Jai went into the kitchen with Livleen and Navpreet to prepare for the lunch they would later serve, and Manmohan and Darshan set about moving all the furniture into the bedrooms and laying cushions and sheets over the floor. When the room had been emptied, they screwed hooks into the wall beams and hung a silk overhang in the front of the room. Satisfied, the priest arranged the holy book beneath it and seated himself comfortably, readying for a long reading. He opened a bag and took out a flywhisk, torpidly waving it several times over the book, then waited for the guests to arrive.
Junker Singh was the first to enter the house. Saying a quick hello, Jai brushed past him on her way outside to help his wife bring up the sweets they would later pass around.
The mechanic shook Manmohan’s hand, then turned to Darshan. “When do you leave?” he asked.
“One week.”
Raising his eyebrows, Junker Singh replied, “So soon?”
“There will be a lot to do before school starts.”
The mechanic positioned himself on the floor across from Navpreet and Livleen, who were already sitting cross-legged by the makeshift aisle of red cloth Jai was using for the guests to approach and pay their respects to the holy book. “It is much sooner than I expected,” he said.
Darshan sat next to him, and Junker Singh took his hand, holding it close to his chest. Darshan made no move to withdraw it. Manmohan watched the two of them, stepping back several feet to leave them be, lowering himself onto a floor cushion.
The neighbors, Dev, Kalyan, Paandu, and their wives soon entered, bowing before the Guru Granth Sahib and taking a seat. The millworkers, Chandan, Sabar, and Vasant joined, and finally, after several of Darshan’s classmates and their families arrived, filling the room, the priest began to read in a droning, singing voice. Manmohan was struck by the powerful nature of that voice, by the command for tranquility in it. The reading was rhythmic and undulating despite its monotony. It was a voice that carried men with it.
He looked at Darshan, observing the way his son’s head was bent slightly forward, eyes fixed on the priest, listening. Wincing slightly, Manmohan tried to pull his legs underneath him. He was in pain but did not wish to retreat to the rear of the room and sit unobtrusively on a chair the way the old men of the village had done in Amarpur. But Darshan, catching his father’s movement from the corner of his eye, rose without a word to get a chair from one of the other rooms. Manmohan watched him go both gratefully and resentfully. Sighing, he stood and, careful not to step on hands and feet, wove through the guests and took his place in the chair Darshan had positioned near the entrance to the hallway.
Navpreet observed her brother from across the room, then rolled her eyes and slowly mouthed the words “show” and “off.”
After another hour, at last the priest raised his voice to bring the prayer to a close, singing, “Saaaat sriiiii akaaal. Waheguru ji ka khalsaaaa, waheguru ji ki fateh.”
Bodies stirred, and people began to stand and stretch, the men making their way to the balcony and the women into the kitchen. Soon the smells of lunch being warmed wafted through the house. Jai had prepared stuffed bitter melon and kidney bean curry, both Darshan’s favorites and testaments to her skill in the kitchen. People ate ravenously, afterwards lingering over cups of warm chai. Soon the afternoon clouds darkened the sky prematurely, threatening rain, and they began to slowly go home.
When the last of the guests had gone, Manmohan looked about his house at the remnants of celebratory prayer, at the cushions and crumpled sheets in corners that no longer covered the floor, at the empty tin cups left on the window mantles, at the awning under which the holy book no longer rested. Some of the wives had offered to help tidy and restore the house, but Jai had sent them away. She, like he, enjoyed the quiet aftermath of such events, the echo of happiness, the memory of laughing voices in the air.
Drowsy from the food and in good spirits, he went in search of Darshan, who had earlier gone outside with several of his friends to say goodbye. From the balcony, he saw his son under the carport, resting on the hood of his Falcon.
Manmohan carefully descended the stairs to join him, leaving his cane at the bottom of the banister. Approaching the carport, he saw that Darshan held a rectangular metal box the size of a lunch tiffin in his lap and was gazing down at it somberly, his face shadowy in the fading light.
“Everyone has gone home,” Manmohan told him.
Darshan lifted his eyes to look directly at his father. “You must be tired.”
“A little.”
His son looked down once more at the box and then held it up. “Junker Uncle gave this to me. He left. He told me to say goodbye.”
Manmohan took the box, op
ening the lid to discover a small tool set, complete with two screwdrivers, miniature hammer, pliers, nails, and screws. His throat constricted. “When you were young—” he abruptly stopped himself, memories confused: the daily ritual of constructing houses made of brick in the backyard, the hollow tap of a plastic hammer on a hard surface, repairs to be made, a sturdy bridge over the river, and a shack in the jungle that no boy should have ever been able to build alone.
“Bapu?”
Manmohan took a breath and shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “It must be strange to leave. Everything you know is here.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Are you nervous?”
Darshan slid down the hood of the Falcon, careful not to scratch the paint. “Maybe.”
As was his habit, Manmohan touched his watch. “That is good. It means you are alive. Maybe it even means you are ready.” He brought the face of the watch close to his ear and listened. It ticked, loudly and with strength, like blood pumping in his ears. Lowering his arm, he unclasped the band. “Give me your hand,” he said.
Darshan’s eyes widened as Manmohan gently took hold of his son’s wrist and fastened the watch around it. “I had it fixed. It is a bit loose, but it will not be long before it fits.”
Shaking his arm so the watch shimmied down into place, Darshan tentatively regarded it, waves of emotion flickering across his face. Manmohan watched him, seeing the shape of his own wrist wrapped around his son’s, wondering what would come next.
~ ~ ~
“It cannot be real,” Navpreet said in awe, nudging Livleen with her elbow, astounded by the size of the jets parked along the tree-lined apron of Nadi airport.
Livleen squinted down the runway and gave a slight, uninterested nod of agreement. “Yes, they are very big.”
Jai looked skeptically at the planes. “Will you be safe?” she asked Darshan.
The airport had changed since Manmohan had last been here with his father and brothers. Several more gates had been added to the apron, and the runway had been lengthened to accommodate the larger, louder-engined airliners. And not just one, but three airplanes taxied the runway. “He will be fine.”
Darshan squeezed his mother’s shoulder reassuringly, then looked at Manmohan. “Can you drive back?”
“I will be watching him,” Navpreet said, her hands clinging to the chain-link fence through which they would watch Darshan take off. “You are not the only one who ever did anything.”
“Here,” Jai said, handing Darshan a cloth full of parathas. “To eat on the plane.”
“Thank you, Bebe,” he said. He was dressed in a new tailored suit. His tie was neat at the collar, pulled out over the vest, the end of it tucked into his trousers.
An outdoor loudspeaker at the top of a thin pole crackled. “Flight to San Francisco, boarding in five minutes.”
Manmohan glanced up at it, then tucked a wad of American dollars into his son’s palm. “Do you need anything else?” he asked, pulling his hand away as Darshan tried to return the money. “Do you have everything?”
Darshan patted his bag. “I think it is all here.”
“Will you miss me?” Navpreet asked.
“I am sure I will.”
She gave him a haughty look, like she did not believe him.
“I will miss all of you,” he said.
Jai gripped both of his arms. “Study hard, and write us as soon as possible. I will be waiting.”
“I will,” he replied, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “I should go.”
“Darshan,” Manmohan said, then hesitated because he was not sure what else to say. “Let me know if the battery in that watch stops.”
“Of course, Bapu.”
After Darshan had disappeared into the building, so dark inside compared to the bright sun on the tarmac, Manmohan left the rest of them at the fence. “I will be in the car,” he said.
“Don’t you want to see the plane take off?” Navpreet asked.
“I have seen it before.”
Perhaps twenty minutes later, leaning on the hood of the Falcon, the rush of turbulence was loud as the plane tore into the clouds above, but still Manmohan did not look up. He waited until the echo of the engine had dissipated into the atmosphere, and then he tilted his head back toward the sky.
~ ~ ~
Carefully navigating the thick underbrush and verdant tangle of trees and vines, Manmohan pushed through the jungle, his cane dangling from the crook of his elbow. He had not been certain how far in Darshan had built his shack, but it was very near. Turning around to look at the main house through the trees, he realized that if he had been standing on the front balcony, squinting hard enough, he could have perceived at least a corner of the shack’s roof from there.
The building was a bit worn, but Manmohan marveled at the durable stilts that had allowed the shack to weather the heavy storms that had blown across the island over the years.
A ladder rested against the open doorway, and Manmohan wondered if Darshan had been here that morning before leaving. He climbed up, and when he reached the blanket-covered door, he was more than a little surprised to hear the soft voice of his friend from within.
“I thought you would come,” Junker Singh said.
“How did you know about this place?” Manmohan asked.
“I have always known about this place,” the mechanic said, a little surly. “I helped him build it.”
Manmohan nodded slowly, feeling shame now. “I knew someone had to. He was too little to do it on his own.”
“But he knew what he was doing.”
Rubbing his aching finger joints, Manmohan peered inside the shack. There was a blanket crumpled in the corner on top of a sleeping cot. Junker Singh was sitting at a table on the only chair. There was a tin tumbler next to his arm, condensation on the outside indicating it was half full of water. A collection of treasures lined a shelf: magazine clippings of cars and pictures of foreign countries, notebooks and candies, a slingshot, a compass, and one fresh coconut. An oil lantern was hanging from a nail above the table.
“Are you coming in?” Junker Singh asked. “Or will you stand there in the doorway?”
“It is much bigger than it looks from outside,” Manmohan said, stepping all the way in, reaching up to touch the ceiling with his fingertips before taking a seat on the cot.
Junker Singh passed the tumbler of water to his friend. “I brought it up myself.”
Manmohan took it, wiping the condensation off on his shirtsleeve. He was not thirsty.
“Why didn’t you ever come see it before?” the mechanic asked.
“I thought it was private.”
“Darshan would have wanted you to come, but he never would have asked.”
“I do not understand why not.”
Junker Singh laughed, slapping his palm against the table. “You never made any sense.”
“Did he ask you to come here?”
“He did.”
“That is entirely different.”
The mechanic smiled broadly. “It is.”
Manmohan stared down into the tumbler, at the clear liquid within. He tipped it slightly. The water was so pure and clean against the silver of the tin. “I never knew you both were out here. You never said a word.”
“There were no secrets. It was your choice. He wanted to talk to you. It is a bit regrettable because that boy was always thinking of you.”
“I was too worried. The children always worried me.”
Junker Singh rose from the chair. Taking one last look around, he stepped toward the door and pushed aside the blanket.
“Where are you going?” Manmohan asked.
“I said my goodbyes. But you should stay.” Junker Singh glanced at the ladder. “I tried to convince him to put stairs in, but he said this would help me exercise.” He held his breath like he was about to duck under water, and then the curtain fell closed and Manmohan could hear his friend grunting slowly down the ladder.
When the mechanic was gone, Manmohan placed the tumbler on the floor and pulled his legs up, stretching out on the cot. He covered himself with the blanket to wait for something important to happen. He thought maybe he was waiting for acceptance, like the goodbye Junker Singh had achieved. Or perhaps it was something else, like peace.
He lay there, and then he lay there longer, but nothing came to him.
Impatient, he sat up, touching the empty place on his wrist and swinging his feet back onto the floor.
PART III
Darshan
Bay Area, California
Ford Falcon Futura
1969
Family Tree
Darshan was cold. Outside Kaiser Hospital, the wind tunneled down Geary Street, carrying with it the dampness of thick fog that coated the city of San Francisco and penetrated his bones. It pimpled his arms beneath the double-breasted pea coat he had bought the year before. It brushed briskly against his neck and swept up his tapered corduroy pant cuffs, snapping at his ankles as he strode down Geary, made a right onto St. Josephs, and headed toward Terra Vista Avenue. He flipped up his coat collar and crammed his fists into his pockets. His father’s leather watchband he had adjusted to better fit him was tighter against his bony wrist in the chill. Forty-eight degrees. But he enjoyed this weather, the fact of its differentness. It felt like freedom.
Approaching Terra Vista, he leaned forward against the slope of the hill, his book bag seemingly heavier as he ascended. The slanted stoops of the row of Victorian homes in his periphery to the left and parked cars to the right went unnoticed as he trudged against the wind and gravity toward the warm apartment that awaited him. His thoughts were consumed by the comfort of bed: those soft flannel sheets, oblivion the moment his head touched the feather-filled pillow. Even the mattress, springy as it was, sounded appealing now, because although the work was satisfying, night shifts in pathology were exhausting, requiring a concentrated focus that left him drained by the end.
